


Trouble Sleeping

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Mummy Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-02
Updated: 2004-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:16:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1635968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are dangerous beasties in the desert at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Roz Morgan

 

 

On moonless nights, the desert turned endless. Eternal silver dunes ebbed to visible infinity, obscured only by a heavy blanket of Prussian blue falling on them at the horizon. Under a vast field of stars, the sea of sand should have kept its own kind of silence, just the occasional whisper of winds shifting across the grains, but a fire crackled in the middle of it, and canvas tents clapped when a dry breeze skimmed past their flaps. Plus, Jonathan had insomnia, which never made a good recipe for peace and quiet. 

Wandering the perimeter of the camp, Jonathan shook a silver flask; once, just experimentally, then he held it up to his ear and gave it a vigorous thrash. The liquid inside burbled, and he shrugged as he padded toward the shift guard. Offering the flask, Jonathan smiled crookedly. "Care for a tipple?" 

Only Ardeth's eyes moved; he looked over slowly, a level gaze that telegraphed a 'no' without the trouble of speaking a single word. 

Undeterred, Jonathan twisted the cap from the flask. "That leaves more for me then, I suppose." He sniffed the contents then took a sip. Face contorting, he swished a foul mouthful of warm, slightly rancid grape juice from side to side, his cheeks ballooning out, finally swallowing with great effort. Hissing his breath, Jonathan fumbled the cap back on and shook his head. "It's not quite tipple yet. Give it a few more days." 

Ardeth rolled his gaze back to the shifting sands. Spine straight and chin held proudly aloft, he seemed like a fixture; a sandstone deity etched by storms and time, but still standing regal watch over his domain. Without the moon to light it, his skin looked like burnished copper, and his eyes onyx, the tattoos gracing his cheeks mysterious glyphs in the dark. Or perhaps Arabic, but Arabic had a bit of a glyph-ish look about it, Jonathan decided. 

Leaning in close, his semi-fermented breath rustling a lock of Ardeth's hair, Jonathan crossed, then uncrossed his eyes to focus on the tattoos. "I have to imagine that must have stung." He circled slowly, his flask giving a merry burble with each step. "How was it done? A bit of bone, sharpened to a point? Or a scalpel, that would do the job neatly. Though, I don't suppose nomads carry surgical bags, do they?" 

Keeping his gaze steady on the distance, Ardeth said nothing, though he tightened his nostrils to keep from breathing Jonathan's exhaled words. Squinting, he could see miles farther than most; he concentrated on a thin trail in the sand that grew by inches. Not likely to be a snake, they preferred the warmth that came with sunrise. Perhaps it was a fennec, out for a hunt, or a sand cat doing the same. 

"Ah, a man of few words. I'm like that myself," Jonathan said, tilting back on his heels. "Stiff upper lip and all that; it's rather a masculine trait. Proper men, I mean. Americans yammer on and on and on if you give them a chance, and really, just standing still next to one is a chance. And they smell a bit of camels, now that I think about it. Crude fellows, though they do have an affinity for cards that I rather admire." 

As Ardeth watched, the billowing trail in the distance started to fade. Dust settled, and soon the sands feel motionless again. Without that approaching threat, he skimmed the horizon again, searching for new anomalies. Nothing to the east but darkness; to the west, his view filled with Jonathan's softly angular face. "You should sleep." 

Jonathan conceded a nod. "I certainly should." Instead of heading for his tent, however, he lingered, his attention caught by the tattoos again. Stopping just short of poking a finger against one to see if they had a different texture from the rest of his skin, Jonathan tipped his head to one side and asked, "It's ground-in char, isn't it? They're a rather remarkable shade of black." 

"Kohl." A muscle twitched in Ardeth's jaw when Jonathan's finger strayed too close, and he squinted his eyes when an exclamation of "Ingenious!" wafted over his face. With Jonathan admiring his tattoos so closely, Ardeth couldn't see the desert beyond, or any approaching dangers, and that wouldn't do. In a flash, he brandished his machaera, its curved blade singing as it slipped from the sheaf. Widening his eyes, Ardeth traced the blade through the air, just a whisper away from Jonathan's skin. "Only the worthy, only those who pass the trials, may walk in the footsteps of the God; and when a young man passes those trials..." 

Turning the machaera, Ardeth deftly rested the steel against Jonathan's cheek. With no more pressure than a butterfly's landing, he drew the blade in a curve along the milky, English skin as he continued. Ignoring Jonathan's slight tremble, his voice a hush, Ardeth followed the blade's path with his gaze. "He is marked, so all other Medjai may recognize him as a man." Flicking his wrist, he slashed a diacritical over the swirl he'd traced then smiled. 

Startled by a sudden, and rather inopportune tightening just below his belt, Jonathan blinked quickly, then stepped back. Red stained his cheeks, but when he reached up to touch the sting, his hand came back clean. All he felt was a blush, and he stammered as he stumbled back again, feigning bravado. He snapped the hem of his jacket and nodded. "Rather, rather like circumcision for the Jews, in a way; no, wait, it's not like that at all; perhaps a mitzvah, or something of the sort; it's a bit nippy out here, I just noticed." 

"It is." Ardeth forced his expression back to smooth stone, looking out at the desert again. 

Arms stretched out wide, Jonathan pretended a yawn. "Off to bed with me then; fancy you keep a sharp eye. There's no end to dangerous beasties out there." Flapping a hand at the dusky sand, Jonathan looked at his own shoes, the outline of Evie and Rick's tent, and the fire- most anywhere, so long as it wasn't at Ardeth. Bumbling back into the camp, he disappeared into his own tent with a huff, and fell silent. 

Amused, Ardeth rubbed a hand over his rough goatee and gazed into the distance again, musing over the discovery that Englishmen didn't limit stiffness to their upper lips. 

 


End file.
